I shook the imperturbable Vologda librarian Golenishchev hard by the shoulder.
“What about the general agreement not to use firearms?”
The answer ran through my head: “That’s right, the Pavliks don’t come under the council. All they want is to get their Books back. What do questions of ethics and honour mean to them! Now they’ll fire a few salvoes and Latokhin’s army will no longer exist.” That was the explanation for the Pavliks’ invincibility…
“Well, good for Chakhov, he knows what he’s doing,” Golenishchev replied. His voice was calm and slightly mocking. “Take a closer look, Alexei Vladimirovich. Those aren’t rifles. Only the bayonets are genuine.”
The Pavliks’ guns turned out to be something like crutches— perhaps originally they had been crutches, only now they had bayonets and massive butts faced with metal.
“I’ve been told,” Golenishchev continued, “that in Novosibirsk they dressed up as Kapellites. A psychological assault. Meaning they did a bayonet charge…”
“Well, naturally,” said one of the Kolontayskites. “A bullet’s a fool, but you can trust a bayonet.”
The Pavliks halted as if on command. There were no more than a hundred paces between them and us.
“Marat Andreyevich,” I whispered to Dezhnev. “What now? There aren’t any seconds, are there?… Who sets the rules in cases like this? Who monitors everything?”
“Why, no one does. It’s the two sides in the fight. Look, Latokhin’s already on his way with some lads… Now they’ll decide how to conduct the battle. The Pavliks already realize they don’t have much of an advantage, and they’re tired… Maybe our side will offer to buy them off or suggest some other compromise. Latokhin had good reason to gather all these people. To cool the Pavliks down a bit and make them think… I don’t want to make any guesses, but I’ve got a very good feeling about this, Alexei.” Marat Andreyevich smiled encouragingly.
The tense minutes passed one after another. We stood there, craning our necks, looking at the group of five Kolontayskites and the group of Pavliks who were discussing our fate.
I heard my name called and then Golenishchev’s. He parted the backs of the Kolontayskites and set off to answer the call, straight through the formation. I thought I’d misheard, but my name was passed through the ranks again: “Vyazintsev…”
“But what do they want Alexei for?” Tanya asked peevishly.
“We’ll find out in a moment,” said Ogloblin. “I don’t like this.”
I saw that Kisling, Akimushkin and Tsofin had left their brigades and set off towards the negotiations. Veretenov followed the librarians. When he drew level with them, he confirmed my summons.
“Latokhin is calling for Comrade Vyazintsev…”
“Where to?” Tanya asked cautiously. “Tell him Vyazintsev won’t go… Don’t go, Alexei!”
“Comrade Veretenov,” said Marat Andreyevich. “Let me go instead.”
“I don’t understand,” said Veretenov, confused. “Vyazintsev’s the one they want… He’s the librarian!”
“There’s nothing here to understand!” Tanya said harshly. “You go to that Latokhin of yours…”
The Kolontayskites looked at us in amazement.
“Hey, what are you two doing?” I asked quietly. “They’ve found a problem. I’m sure it’s just a standard formality…”
“And what if it isn’t?” Ogloblin asked dubiously. “Don’t go. Let Latokhin risk his own life, not yours. That’s not what we agreed…”
“I won’t let you go!” Tanya exclaimed, clinging tightly to my sleeve. “Marat Andreyevich! Come on, tell him!” she said with tears in her eyes.
I felt terribly embarrassed, especially since I’d already made my mark as a panic-monger.
“Marat Andreyevich, please, calm Comrade Miroshnikova down,” I said, adjusting my sleeve when it was released, and dashed after Veretenov.
The Pavliks were waiting for a decision. They looked identical, but I assumed that their leader, Semyon Chakhov, was the one in the centre of the group. This man was unarmed, but he was clutching a large bundle of sticky, bloody entrails, with dung flies sitting on the gleaming guts like motionless bronze sparks.
The other negotiators had slings round their necks, and their plastered forearms rested in them like infants in cradles. This was obviously a piece of Aktyubinsk swank, like sticking your hands in your pockets. The white motorcycle helmets on their heads were decorated with artfully applied bandages.
Chakhov had a good grasp of stagecraft. Even his entourage’s weapons were eye-catching and memorable. The maces were especially impressive—crude steel wires with clumps of concrete resembling meteorites, studded with broken glass, and forks with scummy deposits of dung on their prongs and deliberately broken handles. The hand of an artist was clear in everything. The weapons, like the Pavliks themselves, made your skin crawl.
Swaying as if he was exhausted, Chakhov wheezed in a low voice:
“We’ll wait on one side…” His hands twitched convulsively and he dropped the repulsive bundle. The stage-prop innards unwound and plopped onto the ground. The dung flies didn’t take flight—the insects were only scary junk jewellery.
Chakhov walked off and the ribbon of guts crept after him, with the rubbish that immediately stuck to it. I was aware that this was play-acting, but when Chakhov slowly pulled the guts towards him like an anchor chain, I felt a bayonet piercing my belly.
The Kolontayskites exchanged glances with Latokhin and left the librarians on their own.
And then Latokhin said morosely:
“Comrades, I need to consult with you. As I anticipated, the Pavliks don’t want a large-scale battle. I tried to resolve the matter by buying them off. Chakhov refused. Then I suggested an honest duel, one on one, with the condition that if he lost, the matter of the Book would be closed, and if I lost, then his library would get the Book. Chakhov says that since six reading rooms have intervened for us, it’s only logical that I face the music together with my allies, not on my own. In short, he insists on a collective duel, seven against seven… I implored him to limit it to fighters from our reading room—it’s only fitting for them to fight for the Book…” Latokhin sighed and shrugged, spreading his hands. “That didn’t suit Chakhov. He’s definitely a very shrewd and cunning individual, and he understands the lay of the land. I don’t know what I should do. I’m waiting for your advice.”
“The calculation is simple, elementary,” Kisling said with a frown. “If we refuse, there’ll be a bloodbath and many lives will be lost…”
“But we were prepared for that,” Tsofin said thoughtfully, “the compromise proposed by Chakhov is far from simple. And, to be quite honest, I’m not in great shape…”
My turn to say what I thought came.
“I won’t try to hide the fact that I have absolutely no experience. This is only the second time I’ve taken part in an event like this. Don’t think I’m being cowardly, but I might let you down…”
“Come now, Alexei Vladimirovich, don’t belittle your abilities,” said Golenishchev. “Our scouts reported the jaunty way you cut down the Gorelov librarian Marchenko, and he was no novice…”
“Comrade Latokhin,” said Akimushkin, breaking the silence, “you’re laying a great responsibility on us. If we mess things up, you’ll be left with no Book!”
“I believe in you,” Latokhin said with a helpless smile. “Comrades, I’ll tell you what I think…” He scratched the back of his head and then said in a flash of inspiration: “You have to understand that it’s not a question of physical strength, but… you could call it metaphysical strength. Our cause is just, we shall prevail in any case!”
“But what will the conditions of the duel be?” asked Zarubin.
“The Pavliks are willing to accept the initial rules,” said Latokhin, brightening up. “We have an agreed area for the field of battle; anyone can leave it if he wishes, then he’s out of bounds and the others continue, and t
hen… it’s whoever wins, basically.”
“Humane enough, in principle,” Zarubin agreed. “OK, lads, I’m for it. A hundred deaths fewer, as they say…”
“I was in agreement right from the start,” said Golenishchev.
“Is there any alternative?” Tsofin asked with a bitter laugh.
“I’m the gregarious type,” Akimushkin told us. “Vyazintsev and Kisling, what have you decided?”
I nodded, totally overwhelmed by the situation.
Kisling shrugged: “I’m always willing…”
And Golenishchev summed up: “Comrade Latokhin, call Chakhov… We accept his terms.”
SEVEN AGAINST SEVEN
I HEARD TANYA burst into tears. Marat Andreyevich scurried between Kisling and Zarubin. Timofei Stepanovich grabbed Latokhin by the sides of his chest, saying something threatening to him. They barely managed to drag the old man off.
Ogloblin came over to me and spoke to Akimushkin and Tsofin.
“I’ll just have a few words with Alexei Vladimirovich, all right? Alexei, the most important thing is not to get nervous. Your armour’s superb; no one’s got anything like it, I’ve checked—no axe or sword will pierce it, let alone a bayonet… And another thing, it might just help you…” Ogloblin added hastily. “Before a battle I always try to remember a song, best of all from the Great Patriotic War, about heroic death: that immediately puts me in the right mood, it rouses my fighting spirit. Of course, it’s not the Book of Fury, but it’s still a kind of doping. By the way, Margarita Tikhonovna hinted to me that when you were at her place, you understood all about it…”
This was an unforgivable lapse of memory. I hadn’t spent all those hours in Margarita Tikhonovna’s home, listening to the voices of Soviet skalds flying out of the black holes of her gramophone records, just to pass the time. I only had a few minutes left, and I had to use them to apply this still-unexplored technique of courage.
Ogloblin waved his hand in farewell and rejoined the ranks. I tightened my grip on the handle of my hammer. Golenishchev was standing just a metre away from me, resolutely clutching his axe, and behind him was Tsofin, who had readied two knives for the duel. The beak of Latokhin’s pickaxe glowed dull silver. Akimushkin toyed calmly with his mace, warming up his stiff wrist.
The seven Pavliks facing us also warmed up—smooth, faceless figures who looked like huge white pawns, but with sharp-pointed crutches held at the ready.
“It seems to me at times that soldiers who have not returned from fields of blood were not laid in our earth at all, but turned into white cranes,” I started crooning in my mind. “From those distant times until today they have been flying, calling to us. Is this not why so often we fall sadly silently when we gaze up at the sky?” I cautiously examined my own condition—absolutely nothing was happening in my soul. Panicking, I hurried through the next lines. “The weary wedge flies on and on across the sky, flying in the grey mist at day’s end, and in that line there is little gap, perhaps a place for me…” But the song dashed from the right hemisphere of my brain into the left one in a mute whine. I thought I must have remembered about this too late, but I stubbornly carried on invoking the spell of avian death: “The day will come when I too shall fly through this grey gloom with a flock of cranes, calling in a bird’s voice from the heavens to all I left behind down on the ground…”
Chakhov wound the entrails into a bundle, then suddenly swung back his arm and tossed them in our direction. The Pavliks shot forward like greyhounds, switching places as they ran, and my opponent turned out not to be the warrior I had been preparing myself for. He was almost right beside me when I finally grasped what my job in this duel was. A rush of adrenalin warmed me like a gulp of vodka, my stomach shuddered happily, and I guessed that this was not fear, but deadly fervour.
I saw Golenishchev take a step back to intensify the stroke to come, and his opponent, standing with his back to me, became an ideal target for the hammer. A sharp blow from a bayonet between the shoulder blades only flung me towards my goal. Ogloblin had done a really good job for me—the Belaz tyre tread didn’t let me down; it withstood the blow.
I swung the hammer down on the nape of Golenishchev’s foe. There was a wooden crack. The next second I felt a cast-metal lightning bolt pierce my boot and run into the ground. A nauseating pain splashed up from my wounded foot into my head and clouded my mind. The butt of a crutch flashed by, scalding my temple, ear and cheekbone with lead. A red jangling drowned my hearing. I fell, and the Pavlik fell on top of me, flinging out his arms. He screamed silently with his mouth pulled inside out, hoisted himself up on his arms and suddenly struck a terrible blow on the bridge of my nose with his forehead—and then the Pavlik’s head split open for some reason and a Vologda axe soared up out of it into the sky, like a bird, and the battle ended there…
I had wondered before what it meant “to lose consciousness”, picturing it as a state similar to a nightmare or sleep. In actual fact it was much more boring than that. At first I simply didn’t exist. Then I appeared, together with the light from the large window, lying on my back with a plaster ceiling extending above me.
I rapidly made sense of the world and immediately felt its first inconvenience: my face was tightly swaddled. I managed to lift my hand with a struggle and saw a drip protruding from my forearm. I was able to touch my face. It felt numb and limp, like a rag.
A man with a moustache, who looked like a veterinary surgeon and an agronomist at the same time, cautiously put my hand back where it should be. He was wearing a white coat and a little doctor’s cap.
“Awake are you, biker? Welcome back!”
I realized I had survived, but for some reason I didn’t feel any great jubilation. The recent black vacuum didn’t seem at all frightening to me.
“Oh, I’ll run and tell your family the good news,” a concerned female voice suddenly cooed in my ear. “All your relatives have gathered round. Your uncle, your sister and her husband, and your grandfather. They’re completely burned out. They didn’t sleep all night…” A figure as white as a snowman drifted towards the door, flapping its slippers.
“Righto. And I’ll go home, I’m tired,” said the man. “Last night your uncle knocked the stuffing out of me, I swear to God. I told him: ‘Believe me,’ I said, ‘I’ll try my very best for a colleague and I’ll do a great job…’”
“Are you a librarian too?” I asked with half my mouth, my blood running cold at this surprise. The thought that I was paralysed drove out the question of how my Uncle Maxim had “knocked the stuffing” out of him.
“What librarian?” the man asked in sympathetic surprise. “I’m a surgeon. A traumatologist.”
“A traumatologist…” I repeated in a mumbled echo.
“You were brought into our hospital last night. Second-degree coma… Don’t let that frighten you! In simple terms, it’s just a concussion with loss of consciousness for a couple of hours. You went straight into intensive care, and then came here. Your uncle was champing at the bit to operate himself, but I explained to him: ‘You can’t operate on relatives!’ I said, ‘Don’t you worry about it. We’ll do a great job!’ So your nose will be just like new; that is, just like the old one—no changes!” He laughed.
“But why doesn’t my mouth move?”
“What a droll fellow! You got jabs across half your face. I mean, they gave you anaesthetic. When you were at the dentist’s, didn’t they ever give you injections of novocaine?”
“Yes… I suppose…”
“You just tell me this… Who goes riding around a building site on a motorbike, and in the middle of the night too?”
“What motorbike?” I asked, just to be on the safe side. But this precaution was superfluous and came too late. I’d already blundered over my librarian uncle, and if the jaunty surgeon was from a hostile clan, my life was hanging by a thread.
“You can fake amnesia somewhere else. Why lie to me? I’m not a traffic cop…”
“I re
ally don’t remember…”
And then, to my inexpressible relief, I saw Marat Andreyevich and Tanya. Ogloblin and Timofei Stepanovich were craning their necks round the door.
“What an actor,” the doctor said to Dezhnev with a smile. “Do you hear, your nephew here says he’s lost his memory…”
“How’s that, Antosha?” Marat Andreyevich asked briskly. “You and your comrades decided to hold a rally on a building site, you caught your foot on a steel reinforcement rod that ran straight through you and naturally you went flying off the bike and smacked your head against some planks. And there you have it…”
“Now I remember,” I said. “Thanks.”
“That’s good,” the doctor said with a smile. “Well then, you can do your talking and kissing, but only for ten minutes. The patient needs rest…”
The Shironinites perched on my bed like birds. Marat Andreyevich gave me a brief account of the evening’s events.
“Alexei, we won. The Kolontayskites kept their book! But if it hadn’t been for your heroism, everything could have turned out very differently! Your fearless and self-sacrificing heroism immediately neutralized your opponent and gave us a numerical advantage. He was finished off by Golenishchev, then Tsofin lent a hand and the two of them decided the outcome of the whole duel!”
“If you only knew how proud we are of you!” Ogloblin said fervently.
“Oh, come on,” I said, embarrassed. “I just didn’t want to die for nothing, without taking anyone with me…”
“Alexei, that is heroism,” Marat Andreyevich said with conviction. “A feat that even a complex individual like Semyon Chakhov appreciated!”
“If he could see me here,” I said, feeling at my gauze-covered face, “he’d take me into his own library. I’m the spitting image of a Pavlik now.”
The Librarian Page 21